THE STORY OF A POET

Monday, August 25, 2008

THE STORY OF A POET

Amidst the hot air stiffened with dust and standing in columns The exhausted sun was blushing feebly The victorious heroes in glittering helmets Were leaning on their tired horses with manes dangling down

The air was hot and stiff with dust. The exhausted sun had lost most of its red. Standing in columns, the victorious heroes in glittering helmets leaned on the limp manes of their tired horses.
His Highness Bogdo,s new Gher was ready. The sacred Emblem had already been enshrined. He suddenly had the ghost of an idea. Before he had even shaken off the dust from his long ride, His Highness issued a proclamation and sent out letters with the greatest of dispatch, inviting the stellar poets of his realm to assemble at his new residence without delay.
The wisest and most talented poets galloped through the passes of a hundred peaceful mountains, forded the shallows of thousands of clear rivers. On strong horses, with worn out and tender hooves, the poets arrived at His Highness,s new home.
Rows of shiny white ghers and generous meals awaited them. They were offered the best mutton, the best wine and airag. Maidens and servants ran to do their bidding. At the junction of three famous rivers, three hundred poets came together. They feasted for three months, hardly putting their goblets down, giving the sun no rest. But the stream of drinks eventually diminished, and the world,s greatest banquet came to an end.
Then His Highness Bogdo issued his Decree. Two hundred and seventy of the invited poets were given gold brocade and silk as a reward for their writing. With his Highness,s blessing, two hundred and seventy grateful poets started home. The ranks of those wearing deels were overcome with joy.

Edited to prose by Lyn Coffin

No comments:

Post a Comment

About G Mend-Ooyo

G. Mend-Ooyo was born into a herding family in Dariganga, Mongolia, in 1952. He grew up riding horses and tending sheep, moving over the steppe by camel caravan.

In 1980, he published his first book of poetry, Birds of Thought, and has since published over forty books of poetry, novel, children’s book, fiction, criticism and essays. His ongoing work of poetic fiction, Golden Hill (first published in 1993), has become one of the most influential pieces of contemporary Mongol literature. Fifth edition of Golden Hill published in 2010, Mongolia.

Mend-Ooyo's writing deals with the life of Mongolia's nomadic herders, their culture and cultural knowledge. In his style and thematic material, he seeks to express the melody and richness of the Mongol language and nomadic society. His work has been translated into over thirty languages, including English, Japanese, Hungarian, Russian, Chinese and French, and has garnered prizes from literary organizations throughout the world. He received title Poet Laureate from World Academy of Arts and Culture /USA/ in 2009.

Also, G Mend-Ooyo is writing the Mongolian Calligraphy. He presented several exhibitions in Mongolia and abroad. Example, last his exhibition named “My Crystal Temple of Soul” in Modern Art Gallery of Mongolia, in January, 2010 and attended the President of Mongolia to it and given opening speech.

Mend-Ooyo lives in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, and directs the Mongolian Academy of Poetry and Culture.

My Gente Lyric by G Mend-Ooyo

I am a child of nomadic Mongolia. We would move at the break of dawn. As a child I used to sit in a basket on the loaded cart, greeting the morning sunshine at the even pace of the plodding camel; perhaps it was then that I felt the rhythm of my future poems. When we reached our new camp, everything – the blue cranes, the small trace of white fog, the cluster of boulders, the variegated hills – would all seem new to me.

My father would seat me on his lap and hold his fiddle in front of me, then play a long clear melody – the “Jaakhan Sharga” of the Dariganga Mongols – and as this song came neighing and whinnying out at me, the local mountains would more grand, the water clearer, the song of the birds more melodious. . . Thus my little body became the instrument and my father played on me. My poetry was tuned to the melody of the Morin Khuur across the sacred space of the steppe...

The Official Website

Monday, August 25, 2008

THE STORY OF A POET

No comments:

Sh.Baatar